‘Hamlet’ Served Up With Trims, Clever Twists

The melancholy Dane obviously doesn’t need sweeping castle vistas to tell his story. It can be done tidily in a “chamber” production of “Hamlet,” such as director Tony Tanner has mounted for West Coast Ensemble.

Tanner employs an energetically cut version, but with such dovetailing of events that the story is crystal clear, even though some psychological insights and subtle shadings are glossed over.

Don’t be disconcerted by Hamlet’s contemporary-looking full-pleated black pants and black full shirt or by his worn black leather jacket. This could be Europe today, where youthful fashions rarely filter up to royal households, except perhaps through a fashion-conscious young prince.

That’s the kind of prince Alden Millikan’s Hamlet is. He is also kinetic, even in his most inner moments, and he has a sharp sense of humor we rarely associate with Hamlet. The result is fascinating and stylish, an interpretation that fills in some of the holes the script’s brevity can’t avoid.

Joyce Meadows’ Gertrude and Dennis Creaghan’s Claudius live alongside this Hamlet in the 20th Century, with modern royalty’s reserve--well, some modern royals are reserved--and a considered approach to their exploding family problems. Julian Stone tries too hard for the youthful fire of his Laertes, but Sedena Conley’s Ophelia is delicate without being wispy. Henry Selvitelle is a giddy Polonius, and Allen Douglas’ Horatio is firm as a brick.

William Callaway triples as the Ghost, a very funny Gravedigger and the Player King. His players (Paul Martignetti, Karri Turner) look as though they just walked off an Italian film set--a chuckle totally in keeping with the production’s inventiveness.

“Hamlet,” West Coast Ensemble, 6240 Hollywood Blvd., Hollywood. Thursdays-Saturdays, 8 p.m.; Sundays, 2 p.m. Ends July 19. $12-$15; (213) 788-5900. Running time: 2 hours, 15 minutes.

‘Prayer’ Peers Into Policemen’s Psyche

In the wake of current events, Thomas Babe’s “A Prayer for My Daughter” has become pertinent for its glance inside the police mentality. Although this production at Los Angeles Theatre Center has a couple of missing cylinders, some good performances help pull it up by the bootstraps.

The play’s two minor crooks, druggies and lovers, are in a Manhattan police station as Babe’s tools to explore the attitudes and platitudes of the two detectives who arrested “this garbage.”

Detective Francis Kelly is an old-timer who, at the moment, has something else on his mind. His daughter is holed up in a motel with a gun in her mouth. It’s Kelly’s soul that Babe lays on the line. Tom Badal as Kelly doesn’t lay much on the line. He makes the right moves and sounds, but there’s little beneath his performance and he rarely connects with the text.

Milo Kevin Floeter acts rings around Badal as the youthful cop who tries to understand things outside his limited scope, but just can’t. As the killers, Bruce McIntosh’s Simon is a charismatic Nam vet looking for an accident to happen, and Paul Marius’ Jimmy Rosehips is a frenetic hustler who could be that accident.

Those three performances rise above Ami Mann’s limp direction that ignores the interior shadings as though she were going to take care of it in the editing room.

“A Prayer for My Daughter,” Los Angeles Theatre Center, 514 S. Spring St. Fridays-Saturdays, 8 p.m. Ends May 30. $15; (213) 883-9514. Running time: 2 hours, 35 minutes.

Comic Tries to Open Up to Crowd in ‘Warm-Up’

Sammy Shore’s autobiographical “The Warm-Up” is not a stand-up set by the comic who founded the Comedy Store and spent a few years as the act that opened Elvis Presley’s appearances. Nor, at the Melrose Theatre, is it really a play. Under Chris DeCarlo’s gentle direction, it’s a pleasant visit with a man who has lived with humor his whole life and is trying to find the humor in his personal life.

Presumably the charming set by Nick Angotti and Marino approximates Shore’s small pad in Venice. Certainly Shore lives as comfortably in this version of his flat as he co-exists with his audience.

One-liners are tossed up with regularity, but they’re only window dressing for Shore’s memories, many of which are reflected in celebrity photos on his walls. There are other memories too, about his first wife, Mitzi, his infidelities, his alcohol addiction and the breakup of that marriage, during which he handed the Comedy Store over to Mitzi.

Shore recalls his uncomfortable relationship with his father, a father he finds himself growing to resemble. And there are his sons, the youngest of whom, Pauly Shore, is one of the lights of MTV.

“I’m not jealous,” Shore insists when he mentions how much Pauly is making per week, but we don’t quite believe him. One suspects there’s more to this ingratiating, warm and funny man. Shore hints at why he took the roads he took, but there’s surely more to know about what made Sammy run.

“The Warm-Up,” Melrose Theatre, 733 Seward St., Hollywood. Thursdays-Saturdays, 8 p.m.; Sundays, 12:30 & 7 p.m. Ends May 31. $17.50; (310) 657-5910. Running time: 1 hour, 50 minutes.

Perpetrators Paraded Through ‘Mass Murder’

A startling image greets the viewer on entering the World Theatre: 15 mass murderers lined up in front of the audience, dead still and waiting. It’s like a glimpse of figures in Madame Tussaud’s Wax Works--unreal, but so lifelike their evil permeates the room.

“Mass Murder,” directed by Karen Goodman and written by the company and others, introduces the killers one by one, in monologues. They get to tell their stories, and explain their actions, and in some cases, the supposed injustice done them. From the Son of Sam to Ted Bundy, from the Zodiac Killer to Richard Ramirez, they parade their evils with little remorse and less empathy.

The result justifies the first impression. “Mass Murder” is solely a walk through a living Madame Tussaud’s. Little is spoken that was not media coin at the time of the crimes, and no further insights are attempted. The production has no point of view and the parade loses much of its strength in its numbers.

Some performances are notable: the jagged aura of T-Grey Parker’s Manson, the on-and-off personality switch of Roger Gutierrez’s Ramirez, the leering obscenity of Daniel Piburn’s Henry Lee Lucas, Ned Hall’s electric re-creation of Jeffrey Dahmer reliving a killing under hypnosis, the slovenly self-righteousness of Lisa McKim’s Aileen Wournos. Moments of power in the passing parade.

“Mass Murder,” World Theatre, 6543 Santa Monica Blvd., Hollywood. Thursdays-Sundays, 8 p.m. Ends June 14. $15; (213) 960-9956. Running time: 2 hours, 40 minutes.

A Rather Senseless ‘Threepenny Opera’

All is not Weill in the Basement Theatre’s production of “The Threepenny Opera.”

One problem is Marc Blitzstein’s adaptation, not the best English version. Another problem is Jan O’Connor’s direction, which allows the staging to run at least 45 minutes longer than it should. The turgid tempos are only outdone by the cuteness O’Connor finds in the piece. It has none of the bite, the hard edge that makes the social comment Kurt Weill and Bertolt Brecht intended.

Two sharp, angular performances come close to the mark: Michael Gough’s snappy Macheath, and Lucinda Hitchcock Cone’s gritty Jenny Diver. The rest of the cast mugs and cavorts shamelessly.

Richard Berent’s musical direction often falls flat under O’Connor’s vision, and K. C. Kelly’s costumes are a confusion of periods, including the Street Singer’s modern American Navy pants and peacoat, which have no connection with the 1837 setting.

“The Threepenny Opera,” Basement Theatre, 464 E. Walnut Ave., Pasadena. Fridays-Saturday, 8 p.m. Ends June 6. $10; (818) 397-1651. Running time: 3 hours, 15 minutes.